Hatred that rose from me children's bosom.
I raised them not to held anger.
But to spread their wings with love.
Each shadows cast upon the earth bore the sign of rage.
Thus I am smitten with hammer of remorse.
Had I sown the threads so unevenly for my daughters to wore.
Had I cracked the earth do forcefully until my sons were shook.
Or perhaps it was the Devil whispered the words of malice unto them.
So they would no longer see themselves as family.
So they would see themselves not equal as one and another.
So they would break my heart into pieces.
The instruments of hate are being fed unto your tiny hands.
It can wait.
It could be more capable of waiting.
It could wait until the end of time.
Because it does not care when you use it.
As long as you would.